On This Day
by Mononoke-hime x sukai kurora
Summary: As England watched the fireworks during America's birthday party, Frances thinks of the history the two have shared along with the history of other nations and a long-buried deep confession is said.


_On This Day_

England groaned. "I hate the Fourth of July."

Another round of fireworks were rising in the air, spreading their smoke and unsightly and dulled sparks into the sky.

"Do you want to go home, _mon ami_?" he asked. England shook his head.

"No," he muttered darkly. "Going home means going into _your_ house eventually, and I do not want that to happen." England suddenly laughed, the laughter distracting France enough to not look at the fireworks. "Thank god I'm not drunk."

France combed back his hair nervously as the blond emerald-eyed nation continued to laugh almost manically, as the thought of bringing home _Angleterre_ into his beautiful home, filled with silk covers and exquisite paintings, with diamonds embedded in the curtains. The candles lit. A perfect environment for seducing – comforting, a drunk Englishman. France noted with relief that _Angleterre_ didn't appear to notice his inner thoughts, and instead focused his attention on the smoke building in the air and the short sparks of color.

"I hate this bloody holiday," England muttered as another stream of cheap fireworks rose into the sky. France had to hear him repeat it over the sound of the popping and America's familiar laughter echoing unamused through the air. "I hate this _bloody_ holiday."

"Is it about the Revolution?" France asked softly. England shook his head. He pointed his finger at the dancing drunk Irishman and the Dane who was speaking in uncomprehenable Dutch and screaming. Norway was glaring at nothing as Austria flinched as yet another firework rose into the air. A furious Germany was attempting to chase a naked Prussia as the Italian brothers held onto his back, both sobbing and crying out in fear from the loud noises. The other nations – whom America _invited_ to his birthday party – watched on in boredom or irritation as the fireworks never stopped coming and making their unseemly noises. Greece was the only relaxed, sleeping as the entire world shook around him as he heled his cat tightly as the fur fluffed up and tried to flee despite the hands of its master preventing it to. England growled under his breath as smoke continued to rise in the air, and another firework was set off.

"Goddamn bloody hell, America…" The said America was laughing and shouting at his fellow nations, oblivious to their discomfort as the American nation continued to shout that his birthday celebrated his freedom. England lowered his eyes at that moment, his emerald eyes glassy and almost tearing as America mentioned the evil British and of how he won the war.

 _"Angleterre…"_ France murmured, wanting to embrace his shorter friend, seeing of how the Englishman simply staring at the grass in front of him. Suddenly, shamed filled him as he thought that he had aided the young superpower to defeat England. _All because of the grudges I had. It was not worth it._ England had not talked to him for decades after America had won independence in 1783, glaring at him when awake and sobbing into his shoulder as he slept as the effects of the costly war bombarded him. Perhaps France wanted him to pay – for he had lost Canada to the Englishman in the Seven Year's War. _A son for a son,_ the blue eyed Frenchman thought as he thought of America's younger twin brother.

Canada had not come to America's birthday party, stating that his the other North American had forgotten his own birthday, and was slightly hung over. _"I can't face him,"_ Canada had whispered to his adoptive father as the younger nation wept into his cell phone. _"Not after what I had done, today of all days."_ France had not said a word, noting of the similarities between Canada and his other father. _Angleterre_ also regretted his actions on that night in the early nineteenth century, when he and Canada had burned with White House to the ground. _America tried to invade Canada's house, and burned York. I remember when England told me of the rage and pain in the Canadian's eyes, and of how he had smiled when the symbol of America's freedom was burned._ There were times when _Angleterre_ talked about the his actions that day too, all the same cursing America, yelling that he had been fighting another war as America tried to kick his arse. The Englishman was usually too far gone to note the guilty and pensive look on France's face as the French nation thought of his own actions.

He had tried to create his own empire during the age of Napoleon. France had been damaged. He still remembered the madness that overtook him during the days of the Reign of Terror, feeling screams down his throat and seeing blood. Someone had taken care of him during those days. France was stunned a century later when Prussia drunkenly confessed of how England had complained to him about taking care of him while he was ill. _"He was really mad, but honestly, I think he was angrier at the state of your house than anyone."_ Prussia had a solemn expression on his face for once. Unlike _Angleterre,_ who often became weepy under the influence of alcohol, Prussia became serious and solemn and told things he had never told anyone before.

" _He's awesome like West when it comes to that stuff."_ Suddenly Prussia's expression started to crumble and he started to cry. _"How could I not protect West? He's so young, and he's already suffering because of the war."_ Prussia continued to cry, the thick tears streaming down his face. _"He just was born, and he has to go through all of this bullshit. We all had childhoods before we actually became nations, France but West…"_

France still remembered the conversation even though a century had passed. Prussia was still struggling with his guilt, and blamed himself for the scars Germany carried on his body and in his heart. The citizens who died during the Holocaust never faded from either of their minds, and Italy once told France that Germany always cried even as the Italy tried to embrace him. Prussia had stated his redemption – living in Russia's house for forty years was enough for what he had done, but Prussia had once confessed, during a dark day when Germany and yelled at him and Hungary stated she wished he would just go away after interrupting a World Meeting, that he wish he had died after the war. _"The aristocracy was the real reason why our houses were invaded by nationalist zealots and xenophobics. The people I represented, ruined what Germany was supposed to become, and I…should have just placed the burden on myself and_ died, _so that my brother doesn't have to cry anymore."_

Germany was better now than he had been in the recent decades after the war. Before, no one could mention anything related to the war because the tall German would collapse and he would bleed everywhere – similar to _Angleterre_ on the Fourth of July – and would not speak to anyone. No one could mention his friendship with the bubbly Italian either. Two decades seemed to be as long as a century when the two scarred nation met again. It was only when Italy embraced Germany sobbing noisily and burying his head against his shoulder, that Germany begin to forgive himself a little. And France had tried to tell Germany about his own past – of what he had down before he had been born – but the German was deaf to his words.

France had invaded Spain's house – much to the delight of the Spanish nation until he realized what his old friend was trying to accomplish – and even Russia's. He remembered meeting England on the battlefield, think to himself that he had never seen such a beautiful creature as England stood in front of his troops, angry and wearing his red coat. France had lost in the year 1815 and committed a sin – a nation's sin – and had personally slayed the Holy Roman Empire, despite the failing nation still having his child's body that he had since the fifteenth century, in front of Prussia.

France had laughed, laughing at the former proud nation sobbing like a child as he attempted to put his brother back together. England had challenged him to a duel, and the two fought for days until the Frenchman had collapsed onto the bloody ground. He had noted of England's body falling on his own, feeling somewhat…happy that he was there beside him for some reason. Although the Englishman wouldn't remember, France had taken care of his wounds during the time he was unconscious. _His body is so fragile,_ France had thought as his hands moved of fractured bone over a gruesome wound that had yet to heal. _It makes me wonder how he can handle such pain with such a tiny figure._

 _He's beautiful,_ France thought, but then shook his head with a blush covering his cheeks as he left, the human English commander glowering at him as France left. _I cannot think of such thoughts. I do not know when we…when I will have to fight him again._ France had thought he would burst with happiness when the treaty had been sighed on that April day more than one hundred years ago. It was only then how much he loved England, of how much he wished that he was the reason England smiled and laughed. He wanted to be the one to hold England's hands when he cried – as he often did no matter what he said – and wanted to hold him in his arms so that he wouldn't experience harm or hurt again. He had not confessed his feelings to the Englishman though. France still kept his façade of thinking England as his enemy and inferior to him even as he respected the nation. It was during the war that England and France grew closer, and France stilled remembered waiting for England to come home during the years the nation had fought his brother.

France smiled, thinking of how an exhausted England had brought home an infant Northern Ireland. They had raised her together, despite of what England repeated to the other nations regarding the small nation's upbringing. The nation was now thirteen years old in human years, and again marathoning _Sherlock_ or _Doctor Who_ without her older brother. France grimaced as he remembered sobbing to the dark-haired nation with curls and ice-blue eyes as he despaired over his relationship with her older brother, when _Angleterre_ had decided _"to join that fat American and be a hero,"_ the normally suave French nation spat as Northern Ireland looked at him silently.

It had been 2003, when _Angleterre_ parted from the rest of Europe and decided to join America's war against Iraq. England had refused to listen to him, and the two of them had gotten into such a bad row – France had been spending too much time with the Englishman, the blond-haired nation noted – that Scotland had forced them out of the house into the pouring rain. France had tried to explain again why he was right on this matter, but England had held up his hand. He had stunned the French nation by saying he was correct. _"But even so, I have a duty to my people. I cannot leave my sons and daughters to die in a foreign land to fight what they believe is right."_ France had nodded, inwardly swallowing and watching as England walked away in the rain, the whisper of the words he wanted to say dying on his lips. It was only after the war had ended that England had confessed that even though he had disagreed with his people, he felt as if it was his duty to follow America because of what had happened.

" _But…well…I will follow you before him, France."_ England hadn't seen the smile on his former enemy's face in the dark, and as they slept in separate bedrooms – unfortunate because _Angleterre_ had such a hot ass – France thought of the little boy who had declared that one day he would become the strongest nation on earth so that France would respect him, and the blue-eyed nation thought that it had been true since the day England had first won against him. _I always respected you,_ mon cher.

France remembered the moment when a decade before, that America had yelled at _Angleterre_ , stating that his country was just a shadow to his own and it was no wonder his brothers and everyone else had left him by force – England had tried to say that America only said those words from political turmoil in his county – France noted something deeper inside America. _The unipolar power is getting into his mind, like all of us at one time._ Later as France continued to hold an exhausted and puff-eyed _Angleterre_ , France had got a message that America was now in an excellent English hospital with multiple fractures and burns worse than the ones he had obtained from World War II with a huge English flag across his forehead courtesy from the United Kingdom siblings, and France allowed himself a withering smile at the thought.

When the equality law had been passed, England and France had sat together as marriages were played on television, sipping wine. England had watched the celebrations in English and French despite the Englishman hotly denying that he knew the bloody language as a rare and genuine smiled played across his face. France stared at him, and started when England was suddenly smiling at him and congratulated him. The French nation almost had kissed him that night, but had frozen when his face was near his the island nation's, noting of the said nation swallowing nervously and his emerald eyes shocked. France had not done anything similar since then, but he dreamed of it.

"I wish I was bloody drunk," he stated with a shaking voice as another set of fireworks spread into the sky and breaking France from his thoughts about the past. "I wouldn't have to hear this ungentlemanly noise and horror."

France allowed himself a chuckle. "I think America obtained this illegal and cheap fireworks just to anger you, mon ami."

England laughed, his laughter clear as the two nations laughed together as the ridiculous fireworks spread their smoke and ear-shattering sparks.

"If so, he definitely did." America laughed, his laughter growing louder by the moment as Prussia attempted to swim in the lake behind him, with Germany screaming in German at his older brother. Denmark continued to dance, slightly drooling as he dragged the unwilling Nordics to dance. Japan attempted to calm his poor shivering dog down, but it had no effect. The poor little thing would only shiver and whine as the fireworks shone their ugly sparks more than ever.

"I bloody hate this holiday, as I have for the past one hundred forty bloody years!" England snarled as smoke continued to go into the nation's eyes. "America is so blind to everyone else!" he snapped, further irritated. "He does this every year. New Year's, Christmas, and the bloody Fourth of July! Doesn't he know that some of the nations want to be _alone_ sometimes and not him be the center of attention?" England frowned. "Doesn't he know that some nations don't want to be reminded of this day?" The question, whispered so softly, was left unanswered.

The nations continued to watch as their fellow counterparts began to grow uncomfortable. How long had they sat on this disgusting and slimy grass? France cringed at the thought of the state of his clothes.

"How are you feeling?" France softly asked. He alone knew about England's attacks on the Fourth of July. He had seen the Englishman stumble into his house, drunk with blood stains slightly covering his collar and sobbing. Not just from the loss of America, but from the lives lost as well. His people's deaths still echoed in his dreams, as with every nation. The nation whom France had the most respect for slightly smirked at him.

"Are you worried about me?" The Englishman asked, a smirk against his face and his voice unnecessarily sexy as he lowered his tone. France made an effort not stare. Then he sighed, a somber look appearing in his eyes. "I already collapsed once today during a Parliament meeting, and that was goddamn embarrassing. The queen ordered me to take a day off." A faraway look appeared in his eyes. "Since then, I've been fine."

"I came here because you were here, France." France didn't have to see the fireworks to know that the Englishman was blushing. "I…didn't want to spend this holiday alone with only a bottle, so I…decided to come."

France pretended to give his friend an amused smile. "It amuses me to think you can actually care about me that way, _mon cher Angleterre_ , enough to cross the Atlantic for me."

England moved away, his face now bright red as he could see the seductive smirk of the Frenchman. "I-it's not like that, you bloody frog! It's just that…I'm tired of crying alone." England stated slowly, not allowing himself to look at the staring France. "I just –"

"You wouldn't mind if I kissed you then, would you?"

"W-what?" England spluttered. His blush deepened, and France smiled at the adorable frown on his face. "No! You will not kiss me, even though it's been in your bloody perverted mind for hundreds of –"

England suddenly stopped speaking. France's lips were against his own, tender and warm. They were gentler and softer than England had imagined them to be, and England almost allowed himself a sigh as the kiss slightly deepened. He felt his fingers through France's silky hair – he had always wanted to do that – and felt France caress his cheek as he pulled away.

"That wasn't so bad, was it…mon amour?" France purred. He allowed himself to stroke England's hair, beautiful no matter what he had taunted in the past. "And I've wanted to kiss you for over a thousand years," he added as England stared at him in shock.

"Since then?" France nodded, remember the time – although not the first – when he met _Angleterre_ , both still tiny children at the time. France remembered of how adorable _Angleterr_ e was even then, with his dark green cloak over his head and sitting with his rabbit. "We vowed to stay together when we thought the world would end," the blond Frenchman said as another burst of fireworks burst into the sky. This time France was grateful, for now he could see _Angleterre_ 's beautiful facial expressions more clearly.

The former pirate frowned. "If I remember correctly, you told me that you would control me. We did _not_ vow to stay together or that rubbish you just said out of your perverted mouth." France laughed, his eyes burning bright as he stared at the sharp-tongued Englishman he had loved for so long.

 _"Je t'aime,_ Arthur," France said seriously. England stared at France, remembering when France had told him the significance of their human names and of how only those closest to them could say them. The last one to say his human name had been Elizabeth I, who he had loved with all his heart. _Is it possible…?_ England thought as he stared at Frenchman bending over him with a tender smile over his face. "Do you love me?"

 _"Oui,"_ England breathed as France gasped above him as he stated the words of the French language. _Je t'aime."_ Softly, he cupped France's face.

 _"Je t'aime…_ Francis." England slightly blushed at France's growing tender face, and whispered, "Don't get the wrong idea. My bloody nobles had to speak French in the fourteenth century, so…I had to as well." England swallowed, hoping that France didn't hear his thudding heartbeat against his rib cage. "So don't you –"

France lowered his finger onto England's lips and hushed him. "I love you, even now as I speak your ghastly English. I love you, my beautiful and brave Englishman."

Their lips met again just as the last firework flew into the sky.


End file.
